Sometimes, the Universe brings the unexpected. Like good friends dropping by out of the blue for coffee tonight. Or getting the mail and realizing that not only is it all for you, but none of it can be classified as a bill. Or stepping on the scale only to discover that you’ve lost 4 lbs. Or being greeted in the morning with a steaming latte bowl and wet puppy kisses.

Rumor has it (by way of the late night news) that our weather is about to heat up to a lovely 70 degrees tomorrow!  A break in the rain, hail, and wind that has quickly become the norm of Autumn. One day only, Summer’s farewell tour. Not to be missed.

Sometimes, the Universe brings the unexpected. And it’s good news. Very good news indeed. (Tell me what the Universe has brought you. Any unexpected good news?)

The answer is within; open the door.

Tuberose in my room. Shopping at Gelson’s. Sliced Key Lime in my water. Full length body pillows. Spa jets. Pomegranate Mojitos. The Pacific at dusk.

Our vacation was one of the best we’ve ever taken. No one got sick, the weather was ideal,  and with exception to the train-ride home, it was entirely event free. Along the way, we experienced some new things that have me thinking about the little luxuries in life. It’s those small things, right?, that make life pleasurable.

So, I thought I’d ask you. . . what are your little luxuries? What makes your world spin right?

So, I said Friday. I meant Monday. I didn’t count on the fluish bug-like thing I got over the weekend. Figures.

We picked up the train Wednesday evening. And while the trip down was delightful, the trip north felt like a harbinger of doom. Somehow we ended up in a car with 4 drunk frat boys who were perpetually confused about what seat belonged to them, a baby who was better behaved than the drunkies, a couple of students who apparently thought bathing was optional but boozing was not, and a self proclaimed “hobo” who regaled his seat-mate with every recipe he knew and when he wasn’t doing that he was whistling. Or reciting lyrics of folk songs. His seat-mate was a 60ish woman who giggled at every comment he made, batted her eyelashes like a school-girl, and punctuated every sentence with an exclamation!  They spent all day and all night talking, loud enough for the whole car to hear them. Apparently, we all needed to hear about Tarragon at 6 am. (TARRAGON! It’s a miracle spice, who knew!!) But when the guy in front of us left open a movie player while he went out to  chain-smoke, she lost it. She stopped flirting with her “Bard” long enough to give the guy’s seatmate an earful until he politely told her, “uh, not my player, lady.” Well! Humph! She stomped back to her seat. “Tarragon did you say? How marvelous! You truly are amazing!”

Twenty-one hours of this and you kinda go insane. Coping mechanisms are required. Here’s how I got through.

Surviving the train, part two:

1. Earplugs, baby. EARPLUGS.
2. When those fail, and trust me they will, pumping sound in becomes necessary. Hello ipod. My only regret was not having more new music loaded on to mine. On the down side, I’ve listened to the new Coldplay long enough to consider Chris Martin a close personal friend. And uh, Chris, your tunes are terribly catchy, if pedantic. But the title? Uh? SRSLY? Viva la vida or Death and all his friends? I’m going to stop now, because I feel snarky. And I don’t think our relationship is stable enough for you hear what I really think. And lately, I’ve been feeling like our relationship is very one sided.
3. What was it I was saying about insanity?
4. Oh right, coping mechanisms. My nose is my guide. And its built-in geo-locator suggested that our seats were located in a truck-stop bano. I’d suggest you bring along a gas mask, but I suspect the train people would frown on such anti-social behaviour on your part. In fact, I see the whole thing playing out like this:

Train Conductor: “Miss you can’t wear a gas mask on the train.”

You: “That’s MS, tyvm, and it smells like a urinal in here.”

Train Conductor: “But it scares the other passengers!”

You: “Perhaps. But they scare me. (pointing violently to the seat behind you) THAT MAN smells like pee and tequila.”

Train Conductor: “I’m sorry, Miss, but you can’t wear that! There are children on board.”

You: “See, I’m glad you brought that up. I’ve been meaning to speak to you about this. Have you noticed that you’ve put ONE child in every car. It’s like a chain reaction. Baby in front car starts crying and the others follow suit. Right on down the line.  Seriously, haven’t you ever considered a kid-friendly car?  And while we’re on the subject, the smokers and frat boys need their own car too. They can . . .”

Train Conductor: “Miss, it’s you who needs a private car. Since you don’t have one, take off that mask or get off the train.”

See, I told you it wouldn’t go well.  Personally, I think the train service is missing a golden marketing opportunity by not selling gas masks with their logo on it. But since you can’t have a gas mask, might I suggest you have something that smells good in  your carry-on luggage. In my case it was my traveling pillow. I’m allergic to lavender, so I scented the buckwheat in my pillow with vanilla sandalwood oil. YUM. And while it didn’t completely mask the college dorm urinal smell, it did a great deal to cut down on the stench.

5.  Bring a sense of humor.  When it all else fails just remember, you can’t make this stuff up. But nothing says you can’t write about it, either. It’s all blog fodder, right?

Life is not measured by the number of breaths we take, but by the moments that take our breath away. ~Emerson

One last day. A small trip to San Anselmo for lunch and beloved coffee at Comforts. Dinner in the East Bay with dear friends. Then on to the train in Emeryville around 11. It is easier to say goodbye to Marin than it was to Montecito, but still more difficult than I expected.

This trip only confirmed what I’ve known all along: I am a California girl.

I’ll be back on Friday, after much laundry and probably a few episodes of my beloved Australian soap opera from Netflix. Hey… we all recover in our own ways, don’t judge!

Until then, au revoir.

Words fail me.

And at times this week, so has my camera. Perhaps more accurately, my lack of mastery of the medium has reminded me just how far I have to go as a photographer.  I am out of my depth; quite literally out of my depth of field. Everywhere I turn is another landscape, another painting begging for some composure on my part. I am, for my part, rather weepy.  Stunned by beauty. Captured by place: sound and smell and sight. Breathing in. Breathing in deeply.

I fear I cannot summon enough words to express my gratitude. I never expected to even be here. Much less to be living on this estate during our stay in Santa Barbara. We have been given such a gift—and the generosity of spirit found in this place  leaves me stunned. It’s a beauty of its own. Glimmering and ethereal, much like the Lockwood de Forest landscapes of Val Verde.

There was a moment last night, after an amazing meal and window shopping on State, we headed to our car to go home. For one small, nearly intangible moment, everything stood still. Streetlights blurred, cars in suspended animation, I looked around at my boys and breathed in the warm night air.  I forgot that I didn’t belong to this place. For one small, nearly intangible moment, we were home.  Speeding onto the 101 south, I remembered. It’s this moment I’m carrying into my future.  A vast thing, I cannot imagine or capture on film.

When overwhelmed by landscapes that escape me, I turn to what I can do. Up close and personal. Focus on the details. Focus on the moment at hand. Panning out is scary. Breathtaking and expansive and frightening. In my case, often blurry. Click, click, click, another macro shot to root my feet in this present. Firmly grasping the now. I don’t know any other way to live this amazing life of mine, but to string these moments together. And hope, that in doing so, you can see my landscapes, that I can see this landscape more clearly.

I’ve been given unfettered access to this beauty. An honor I fear my photographs will ultimately fail. But for the grace that has swirled in front of me, for the gift of simply being here, I cannot help but say, “Thank you.” Thank you, Gerardo, for sharing your lovely birds and sweet family. Thank you, Olga, for your attention to detail and making us feel so at home. And most especially; thank you, Gail, for opening the doors of this magnificent estate to us and allowing us to call it home this week.

This place, this place is a beauty I expected. But like love, or babies, or that perfect moment you can’t be prepared for your reaction to such overwhelming beauty. You can’t. You can only breathe in the moment and be thankful that it’s happening to you.

And maybe pull out your camera and try to capture it. Just don’t be surprised to find yourself out of your depth.

*The title is a Coldplay song off their new album: Viva La Vida. It’s been on constant play during this trip and now is officially the soundtrack to this excursion. You can listen to it here.

Laugh.

Twilight has a way of making lovers more beautiful, worries less present, and the edges of photographs ever so undefined.